Crossfire
by Bizzy
Summary: He should have known from the moment this started that they would both be caught in the crossfire. [Rated for character death] [ALTERNATE ENDING UP!]
1. Original

_Crossfire

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Mild, mild spoilers for the very end of the anime, but to understand what is going on as far as the spoiler, you sort of need to know what happened, so it doesn't really spoil too much._

This was _inspired_ by another fic, I believe it is titled 'Aim, Snap, Fall' by _Dommi-chan_. I had no intention of writing any sort of deathfic that crossed this path, and then I was doing research for my philosophy paper. Evidently, during this time period (and before it), death by a firing squad was considered honorable and was generally reserved only for the miliary.

Ehh...this is a bit rough around the edges. I know that, but I want to post it and see what people think. To smoothe it out will take a fairly decent bit of revamping, I think, and I don't want to bother if people think this is bad. Yeah.

Please read and review!

* * *

He should have known, from the very start of the whole fiasco, that she would be drawn into the danger. He should have known that they would suffer dire consequences for the act of treason they knowingly committed against their country. He should have known that she would quietly place herself and her livelihood in the line of fire to try and save him.

Most importantly, however, he should have known that the punishment for their crime would be death.

And what else could the punishment be, really? Surely, there was a trial held, but on the third day of testimony he was suddenly aware of the outcome that would be reached. Dark eye watched her take the stand, her yellow hair like a beacon resting atop the gray prisoner's uniform. The very moment she opened her mouth, he felt himself cringe at the lies that slid from her lips—and she seemed to have an explanation for everything. Why he was the one originally at the scene of the crime, why she seemed so late to arrive.

It was such a calculated answer, such a cold, crisp lie that took him so much by surprise, that he couldn't compose a coherent sentence when he took the stand. She had been his partner, his second-in-command, for the majority of their military career. Absently, he wondered if she had planned her statements simply to render him speechless.

When the jury adjourned to deliberate, he found himself glaring at her, furious.

"You…you are _impossible._"

Her hands, which seemed so infinitely small folded in her lap, tightened.

"You're a _liar_! You lied on the stand, Lieutenant. You planned out every word, didn't you?! Every statement, so that you could catch me off guard and convince the jury. Why? Why would you do that? This is blame that should, at the very least, be equally shared—"

"Colonel…please stop yelling."

He winced. In his anger, he didn't' realize that she had been recoiling from him, her amber eyes focused elsewhere. She almost didn't appear to be listening to him, at all.

"I'm trying to talk to you, Hawkeye—why aren't you listening to me?"

She swallowed thickly. "They're going to sentence us to death. I don't want my final memories of you to be of you scolding me as though I were a child. _That_, sir, is why I am not listening to you." Her eyes swayed from their focus on the floor to his face, before flitting away again. They were so close to each other, seated at the bench and awaiting their sentencing, that though he could nearly feel the heat radiating from her tense form, it sounded as though she spoke from miles away.

"Hawkeye…"

There was a fan spinning somewhere, the eerie clicking drowning out his thoughts. Once again, he felt compelled to say something of substance, to fill the silence and quiet the quiet spinning of the fan. And once again, he could hear her speak without saying a single word. She shifted her weight slowly, staring down at her feet. Once again, she opened her mouth, closing her eyes as she spoke. "They're going to kill us, sir."

And she sounded afraid.

And suddenly, Mustang would have killed to be only able to hear the clicking of the fan once again, if only he didn't have to listen to _his Lieutenant_, suffering in fear.

The door to the deliberation room opened, and both 'criminals' looked up from their conversation. He glanced at her, watching her visibly tense as she rose to her feet. He followed suit, rising, and swallowing a lump of panic. The grim look on the faces of the jurors certainly couldn't have been a good sign. The head juror stood eyes downcast as he read from a sheet of paper.

"The jury finds both Colonel Roy Mustang and First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye guilty as charged on all counts. One count each of murder, two counts each of treason…"

He tuned out the speaker, focusing instead on her fingers drumming just slightly on her knee. In less stressful times, he could imagine her cleaning her gun or reading a book. As he had learned, she was still human and was prone to nervous habits—habits that she had a tendency to repeat. He snapped to attention, however, when he heard her gasp.

"The punishment for this crime will be death by firing squad."

That was the moment when the gasp slid from her lips. Her amber eyes widened with shock, mouth moving slightly as if trying to speak.

The irony of Lieutenant Hawkeye facing death by firing squad did not elude him and he was certain it didn't elude the jurors, either; one of the best snipers in the military, being killed by the weapon she specialized in. Being killed by people she _trained_ to use those weapons.

Any formalities said thereafter he simply didn't listen to. He just followed quietly as both himself and Hawkeye were removed from the courtroom.

* * *

He wouldn't speak much to her, she realized, now that their sentence had been set and a date chosen. Instead, he sat quietly on the other side of the prison cell, evidently thoughtful but still silent. She tried once to speak with him, but he often replied in anger, frustrated, and their conversation would end abruptly.

As a result of his anger, she had come to enjoy the darkness of the cell. At least, she had learned after being in the cage for nearly two and a half weeks, there was predictability. The slats of light that formed at sunrise would always fall on the thirteenth tile from the right. The lights would invariably be turned off when the security guards deemed it time to sleep. The cots would remain uncomfortable no matter how much she shifted her weight.

And Colonel Mustang would continue to not speak with her.

So on the day of the execution, hours before the sun would rise, she found herself not expecting a word from him, since he hadn't spoken to her since the sentencing. There was no reason to believe that the pattern would change today.

"Riza?" A pause and then, "Are you awake?"

The cell was dark, and she knew he couldn't see her, staring absentmindedly at the ceiling. It was better that way, not being seen. The last time she had fully seen her broken Colonel had been almost two weeks ago, and the look of horror on his face still haunted her thoughts when the nights drew in and the chill slid deep into her bones.

"Yes, sir. I'm awake."

She listened to him shift in his cot, and heard his head collide with the cement wall. This was followed by a string of colorful curses. "Are you nervous?"

Carefully, quietly, she turned so she could at the very least pretend to see him. And somewhere in her heart, she could hardly force the energy to try and focus in the dark. She wondered when the sun would rise.

With a nearly inaudible sigh, she leaned forward in the cot, resting her head in her hands, amber eyes closing. "Yes, sir," she whispered, swallowing. "I am nervous."

He was sitting then, because she heard him place his feet on the floor. The boots made a hollow clicking noise as they collided with tile. Shortly thereafter, his footsteps echoed around the small room, pounding like a hammer against the silence. He sat down beside her, looking down to his hands.

She could feel his arm, snaking its way around her side, fingers resting gingerly on her thigh as he pulled her closer to him. She could feel the warmth of his chest as he tugged her backwards, leaning so their backs rested against the wall. And in the end, she either had no energy—or perhaps no will—to fight his movements.

He was grabbing a blanket, she realized, one of the crisp cotton blankets that were issued to the inmates. Carefully, he got himself covered, and then shifted the blanket so as to keep her covered suitably as well. Slowly, he rested his head atop hers; breathing in the familiar scent of the cornflower-yellow hair that still seemed so bright in the near blackness of his personal hell.

"There's nothing wrong with that," he whispered. She could feel the wind of his breath skipping across the flesh of her ear. "I am scared too."

* * *

That was how they were found.

Tucked under a blanket, together, on the female prisoner's cot at 0900 hours—fast asleep and seemingly enjoying the quiet. Officers opened the door, harshly yanking the blanket from the two sleeping forms.

"Get up Mustang, Hawkeye."

She sat bolt upright immediately, and he was aware of being rudely awoken just a moment later. For a moment, he opened his mouth to protest, and then decided against it; it wasn't worth the effort, to try and argue. Instead, he got to his feet, watching as she did the same. Her head was bowed, hands folded tightly in front of her.

He suddenly wished that he had argued. Just a few more moments with his Lieutenant—

In silence and disgrace they were lead from the prison cells to a sickeningly familiar brick wall. She visibly winced at the muddy red stains, knowing she had more than contributed to the blood on that wall. Without a word, they took their position, leaned against a foul brick wall, staring directly into the barrels of fifteen guns.

"Any last words, traitors?"

After a pause, the guns were raised, and a call was issued. "Ready."

Amber eyes turned to meet obsidian, suddenly wide with sheer terror. She didn't run, she didn't do more than shift her gaze. Away from those guns that were pointed so mercilessly at them.

"Aim."

He swallowed anxiously, the drawn out process leaving him sick to his stomach. He leaned his darker head towards hers, only to distract the gunmen as one hand carefully, _carefully_ was slid into hers. She gripped it tightly, clinging to it with the desperation of a dying woman. His grip tightened around hers. For so long, he wouldn't speak with her and he wished he had.

And finally, the call that they both knew was coming, the order that would end everything, once and for all. The order that would end their careers, their friendships and most importantly, their life.

"Fire!"


	2. Alternate Ending

_Crossfire_

_-Alternate Ending- …or maybe "crack" ending, if you think about realistic situations and whatnot._

**Author's Notes:** Dailenna. You kill me. Seriously.

See, in the original version of _Crossfire_, as punishment, Hawkeye was slated to kill Mustang. For some reason, I told this to Dailenna because she asked me why I chose to write this the way I did. She said to me, that I should have written Hawkeye doing it.

So…

Damnit. And she gave me another idea—so now I'm running with it because….because I can't help it. Picks up at the actual jury sentencing!

(I can't believe I'm actually posting this...)

* * *

"The punishment for the crime will be death by firing squad." The juror continued reading from his notes, tight-lipped and struggling to get the words out properly. "Riza Hawkeye will be the sole executioner of Roy Mustang—"

And she almost screamed, her eyes widening so much they looked like saucers, nearly bugging out of her head in a state of shock. Her lips were moving just slightly, but didn't produce a sound. He was no better. It was bad enough that they intended to kill one of the best sharpshooters in the military by a firing squad—but to force _her_ to actually shoot _him_ crossed the border into cruel and unusual punishment.

Finally, something slid from her mouth. It sounded more like a choked gasp mingled with tears, and then a plaintive, "no," before she sank back in the chair, her palms pressed firmly over her eyes. He watched anxiously as she did everything in her power to remain quiet, but he was certain he heard a sob.

* * *

He was angry with her.

Surely he had every reason to be angry with her. But she wouldn't speak to him. At first, they were housed in a single prison cell, sharing the space. Two days into the stay, he found her impossible to deal with. She sat in silence, didn't speak a word to a soul, instead staring blankly out the barred prison window.

And so three days into the stay, he was moved to the cell directly beside hers.

He thought it might have been more comfortable, away from his seething Lieutenant, but it only felt worse when she started crying quietly at night.

* * *

Mustang never thought that the barrel of a gun could ever look so menacing as it did right then. It was a weapon, used to kill, and he had seen it used countless times by the woman currently holding it. But he had never felt the chill of death so close to him that he could almost touch it—and death by the hands of a person he cared for only made the moment more disturbing.

There were shackles around her ankles. Of course, Hawkeye was a woman of honor and _he knew_ she wouldn't run. The remaining military officers, however, didn't seem to think so, and chaining her to the ground seemed to be the best solution in their twisted minds.

It was hard to look her in the eye. He wanted to, so desperately. But she was long gone, he had noticed. Long gone. The woman he had known, once so strong and dependable and steadfast, had since vanished from the woman standing before him now. No, all that remained were the killer's eyes of a defeated soldier. It left a burning pit in his stomach.

Both hands supported the weapon forward, aimed between his eyes. Mustang stared anxiously. The gun was so close, he would have sworn he could feel the cool steel resting against his skin. He gulped for air, tempted to close his eyes, and halfway through the process when he realized her hands were trembling, violently. To the point where she could hardly hold the weapon steady, at that.

He was waiting for the sound of a gunshot. To be the last sound he ever heard, to pitch forward into the ground, dead. He was prepared for that, prepared for the end and prepared to be done with the situation. Prepared to not need to deal with her death, to be able to simply die and not suffer a moment alone on the face of the planet without her.

"I'm sorry, Roy," she whispered, tears in her voice.  
His eyes widened as her hands turned. She couldn't do this. This had to be what she was planning, what she was hiding from him, why she wouldn't speak to him. "No, don't—"

He hardly managed to formulate a sentence before she pulled the trigger with the barrel of the gun resting firmly against her temple. He started ripping at the handcuffs, unable to fight himself free. She was already dead, and there was nothing he could do but fight back the urge to vomit as he watched her crumple to the ground, the gun clattering to the side, blood seeping through the cracks. He could feel stickiness on his knees as her warm blood soaked through the pants of the prisoner uniform.

His entire form slid forward, and he rested his head against her still form. His ears registered that her heart was not beating, the position of his head revealed that she was not breathing. And by all definitions of the word, Riza Hawkeye was dead.

Roy cried.

It wasn't a loud cry. It was subtler, softer, weaker. She wasn't supposed to turn the gun on herself. Years ago, he had told her to shoot him if he ever strayed for the path of wanting to help his countrymen. She agreed. But she couldn't bring herself to pull the trigger when the time was right. When she was told to. Instead, she killed herself in lieu of killing him.

Over the sobs of the broken Colonel, an order was heard. "Ready."

Her face, bloody and bruised, was still warm. He slid his head closer to her cheek, until it was close enough to feel her still.

"Aim."

He could feel her blood smearing across his skin, but couldn't bring himself to respond. He desperately wished his hands were free, so he could touch her, cling to her, protect her from whatever he could. He knew that those men planned to shoot him in a moment's time, to end his life the way she had been told to. He knew he was facing the firing squad instead of the trustworthy hands of his Lieutenant.

It made it that much easier to stare into the eyes of his killers.

"Fire!"

* * *

Dailennaaaa you have corrupted my brain! I can't believe I wrote this. I can't believe I even posted this. Gosh. I'm depressed now, because…it's still sad.

Not nearly as well written as the first piece, in my opinion, but…well, this didn't come as easily to me. The logistics did, but the wording didn't. Since I wanted Riza turning the gun on herself to be a surprise, I couldn't have anything coming from her point of view—since it's presumed that she made her decision _long_ before the day of the execution.

Tell me if you like the alternate/crack-ish ending?


End file.
